She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. “John, don’t!” she cried. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams.
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